


Shelved

by cupcakesnsarcasm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Library, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:51:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupcakesnsarcasm/pseuds/cupcakesnsarcasm
Summary: Dean just needs one last book to finish his thesis.  Unfortunately, he can't seem to find it.





	Shelved

**Author's Note:**

> This tiny little fic was inspired by a lovely piece of fanart that I saw on tumblr, created by elicedraws. Thankfully, she was kind enough to let me share it here. Isn't it adorable?
> 
> P.S. This is my first Destiel fic. :)

                

 

                Everything was quiet.  Around him, all was still; a soft rustling could be heard in the distance, but there was nothing immediate.  Dean’s eyes worked tirelessly, searching desperately, hoping to find the final piece of the puzzle.  His hands were tense and reaching, ready to jump into action at any time.  If he could just find what he needed, things would all fall into place. 

                He’d be able to finish his paper, and then he could graduate.

                But the book he needed, the last piece of primary documentation for his massive, soul-suckingly-complex thesis, wasn’t in its home on the shelf.  He’d checked the computer before coming to the library, and the book hadn’t been checked out.  It should be here – somewhere.  His eyes ranged across the shelves, skimming the spines of the books, seeking the key words.  To his left, another student entered the aisle, fingers trailing over the edge of the shelves.  Dean huffed.  Maybe that guy’d have better luck than Dean.  He glanced at the newcomer, taking in his blue sweater and messy hair.  The guy was definitely good-looking, and it looked like he had a good body under those tight jeans…  Dean shook himself, forcing himself to focus on his task.  Finish your thesis first, he reminded himself.  Chase hot guys later.

                Shelf by shelf, he combed the section.  This was the only logical place for the book to be; in fact, it should have been on the third shelf, in the center of the section.  Since it wasn’t there, he was hoping that some clueless undergrad had put it back incorrectly and that he’d find it here, mistakenly shelved in the correct area, but on the wrong shelf.  He moved across the section, eventually finding himself all the way to the left, standing beside blue-sweater-guy, leaning in to scan titles.  He cast a small smile at the guy, who was frowning at the books on the shelf.  Please, please, let it be here, Dean prayed. 

                Blue-sweater-guy lifted his hand, laying it on the edge of a shelf.  Dean’s eyes followed the movement, tracking those long fingers, which began to drum on the edge of the shelf.  He lifted his eyes, and there, just beyond them, lay his prize – Michel Foucault’s _The History of Sexuality._   Dean breathed a sigh of relief and reached for the book, opening his mouth to say “excuse me” as he stretched past the finger-drumming-man who’d literally pointed out the book that would allow Dean to finish his degree. But as he moved, the words rolling out of his mouth, the man lifted his hand and reached for the same red-covered book, their hands colliding on the spine. 

                “Oh,” Dean said, startled.  He didn’t let go of the book.  He was desperate to get this done, to be freed from academia for the time being.  “I didn’t realize you were looking at this one.”  His fingers clamped onto the spine as they pulled the book from the shelf, brushing against the other man’s hand.

                “I can’t see how you wouldn’t realize that,” he said, in a voice so deep that Dean’s knees felt momentarily weak.  “My hand is on the book, and I clearly reached for it before you did.”  He turned to face Dean, holding tight to the book that was now squarely between them.  His blue eyes were electric.  “So if you wouldn’t mind…” He trailed off, looking pointedly at Dean’s hold on the book.

                Dean looked at his own fingers, then back at the man.  He cleared his throat.  “Well, see, here’s the thing,” he said, throwing out one of his most charming smiles.  “This book is the last text I need to finish my dissertation.  I’ve been looking for it all afternoon – that’s what I was doing in this aisle when you got here.  So…” It was Dean’s turn to trail off and look meaningfully at the man’s grip on the book.  Then he glanced back up at the man, grinning ruefully.  “Come on, man.  Help me out here.”

                Blue eyes stared back at him, unblinking, seemingly unaffected by Dean’s plea.  “Perhaps you should have started your search on this end of the shelves,” he said.  “Then you would be in possession of the book.”

                “Hey, that’s unfair,” Dean protested.  “It wasn’t in the right place.  It should have been over there,” Dean pointed with his free hand, gesturing expansively, “which is where I started looking.  If it had been shelved correctly, I would have grabbed it an hour ago and you’d still be staring at this shelf,” he pointed this time, to clarify, “looking for something else to read.”

                The man looked at him carefully, his head tilted to one side now.  “I also need this book,” he said.  “I have a presentation due in a month that requires me to utilize this text.”  His face was blank, which frustrated Dean to no end. 

                “Look, buddy,” he tried again.  “I only need it for a few days.  You can come with me now, put a hold on it when I check it out at the desk, and then they’ll call you as soon as it comes back in.”  He put on the best puppy dog eyes that he could manage.  “I promise, I won’t keep it long.  Five days at the most.  You’ll have it back in lots of time to work on your presentation.”  He paused.  “Hell, I’ll even proofread your presentation for you. Be your test audience.  Give you constructive feedback on your use of Foucault and his theory of gender as a construct.  Just let me have the book first.”  A hint of desperation was creeping into his voice.

                The blue eyes were still staring, but something behind them had shifted.  “No,” he responded.

                Dean froze.  “No?” he asked, shocked.  “Seriously?  No?”

                The man nodded.  “No,” he said, “I won’t go to the desk with you.”  Dean felt himself deflate.  He’d be stuck for another month, unless he could round up a used copy online and could afford it have it shipped – which he couldn’t, because until he finished this degree and got a job, he was broke.  “But I have an alternate proposal.”

                Dean looked up, finding those eyes trained on his face. 

                “I will come sit with you, and we can share the book today,” he offered.  “Let me get enough basic information to begin with, and then the book is yours for a week.  At the end of that time, do not return it to the library – I’ll give you my number, and you can hand it directly to me.”  Dean nodded, relieved.  The blue-eyed man softened then, glancing shyly at the floor before speaking again.  “And if you were serious about viewing my presentation in advance, I…”  He took a breath.  “I would very much like that.”  His eyes found Dean’s.  “Perhaps we could even do it over a meal sometime?”

                Dean grinned, tightening his grip on the book, causing his fingers to brush against the other man’s hand again.  “Like a date?” he asked, watching the blush creep up the man’s face.

                “Yes,” he answered.  “A date.”  He shifted his fingers as well, brushing against Dean’s purposefully.  “I believe I would very much enjoy going on a date with a handsome man who is well-versed in challenging and provocative philosophical texts.”

                Now it was Dean’s turn to blush. 

                “My name is Castiel,” the man said, his deep voice feeling like it was resonating through Dean’s very core.  He shifted the book between them, putting it firmly into Dean’s grip.

                “I’m Dean,” he said, letting the book and his arm fall against his thigh.  He didn’t miss the fact that Castiel’s eyes followed the movement, tracing along his black t-shirt, down his bicep and forearm, eventually landing on his bowed legs.  Dean swallowed, suddenly very much interested in getting to know the man in the blue sweater.

                “Do we have a deal, Dean?” Castiel asked.

                “Sounds perfect, Cas,” he answered, smiling.

                Castiel paused a moment, tilting his head.  “Cas?”

                Dean shrugged.  “Sorry,” he apologized quickly, a little embarrassed.  “I do that a lot, give people nicknames.  I won’t do it if it bothers you.”

                Castiel smiled at him then, a genuine smile, teeth white and perfect.  “No one’s ever called me that before,” he said.  “I like it.”

                Dean smiled back, relaxed.  This was going to work out, he thought.  He was going to finish his thesis, graduate with a Master of Arts degree, and possibly even find a hot, smart boyfriend.  “I’ve got a table just on the other side of these shelves,” he said, not taking his eyes off Cas.  “Should we get to work?”

                “Lead the way, Dean,” Cas replied, still smiling.  “I’ll go with you.” 

                Yes, Dean thought to himself.  Things were definitely falling into place.   


End file.
